


This Dance of Days

by kianspo



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Romance, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 22:36:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/602839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kianspo/pseuds/kianspo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which people get married, Arthur is confused a lot, Uther gives relationship advice, and Merlin isn’t scared, except when he is, but only a little bit. Also Merlin steals things, and Gwaine is up to no good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Dance of Days

**Author's Note:**

  * For [herbeautifullie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbeautifullie/gifts).



> Dear herbeautifullie! This turned out more of a cheeseball than I anticipated, but hopefully it’ll work for the holiday season? Against all odds, I hope you’ll enjoy. :)
> 
> Special thanks to Molly (secret_chord25) for her amazing beta-fu. ♥

\--

It starts with two women talking in the student cafeteria.

Arthur isn’t listening, not at first. His mind is too overloaded with the unclosed deal and patent requests, both unfinished because he left office early. He’s also running various routes in his mind, trying to calculate the way to the restaurant with minimal time loss for traffic, and somewhere in the mix is Merlin’s absurd insistence on taking his tea with honey and Arthur’s valiant opposition to it.

He’s half-smiling, not knowing it, when he hears Merlin’s name.

“I’m just saying. If you don’t get out there now and find yourself someone, you’ll end up an old maid.”

“Oh God, who even says that? An _old maid_ , Grace?”

“If the shoe fits. You don’t want to end up like Merlin, do you?”

Arthur chances a look. Two women are sitting at a table close enough to the counter for him to easily overhear in the mostly-deserted cafe. They look about twenty-five, one tall with a long face and brown hair, the other curvy and ginger.

“What do you mean like Merlin?” The ginger one frowns. “He’s dating some bloke, isn’t he?”

Her friend – Grace, Arthur deduces – scoffs. “Yeah, but it’s not serious,” she says dismissively, and Arthur’s eyebrows crawl upwards of their own volition.

He doesn’t know either of them, which is strange, considering he’s met most of Merlin’s faculty colleagues. And yet, here this woman is – this complete _stranger_ – talking about Merlin’s personal life as if she knows what’s going on. Arthur feels in equal parts amused and insulted and mostly just incredulous.

“How do you figure?”

“They’ve been dating for ages. Like five years or more. Caley told me.”

“So?”

Grace sighs with an air of an extremely patient person who keeps having to explain obvious things. “So when people date for that long, they either get married or they split. If this guy hasn’t married Merlin by now, it means he’s not serious.”

Ginger doesn’t look convinced. “But Merlin seems happy.”

Grace rolls her eyes. “Of course he is; he’s a dear. But mark my words – he’ll be lonely and heartbroken once that bloke of his takes a real fancy to someone, and it’s bound to happen sooner rather than later.”

Her friend looks reluctantly appreciative of that logic, and Arthur turns away, confused and vaguely irritated. He doesn’t know what to think about it, except for – _what the fuck_?

“Hello, Arthur.” Drea smiles, the couple in front of Arthur finally paying for their drinks and leaving. “Your usual?”

“Yes,” Arthur says distractedly, then suddenly looks up. “Actually, no, hold that. Make me my usual, and one of those spiced tea lattes.” He grimaces, digging up his wallet.

Drea grins, ringing it up. “I thought you were trying to get him off those.”

He shrugs and tries for a grin. “Cutting some slack wouldn’t hurt.”

She nods sagely, barely even trying to hide that she’s laughing at him.

Two hot drinks in hand – Arthur valiantly resists the temptation to upend them on the gossips’ laps – he makes his way toward the elevator, and then stalks through the mostly empty corridors toward Merlin’s study. He enters without knocking.

“Arthur?” Merlin looks up from what seems to be a fortress of papers on his desk. His glasses are a bit askew, as is his tie. His hair is all over the place, his jacket is nowhere to be seen, and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up and wrinkled. He’s every bit the distracted professor his students so adore as he stares at Arthur, looking like he’s trying to make sense of him. “Am I late?”

“No, I’m early.” Arthur sets the Styrofoam cup on the single paper-free square inch of the desk he manages to find. “The reservation is for seven.”

“Oh, um.” Merlin looks around, eyes unfocused and a little wild. “I might be a while; if I don’t grade all these tonight, Peter will have my head, and—”

“Merlin.” Arthur smiles down at him. “It’s fine, I’ll wait. Drink your tea. You look like you’re about to lose it.”

Merlin’s shoulders relax slightly and he gives Arthur a timid grin. “Thanks. It’s that damn flu – people keep dumping their classes on me.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Of course they do. You’re the only person in the building who hasn’t learned to say no.”

“Oi! I can say no just fine, thank you.” He tugs the lid of the tea and inhales deeply. “Ginger and honey? You must really love me.”

Arthur kisses the top of his head. “What gave me away?”

Merlin makes a noncommittal noise, taking a sip and all but purring at the first taste. Arthur laughs and goes to sit by the window, pulling out his mobile to update the restaurant of the shift in their schedule.

Merlin chatters away through the drive and the meal, and Arthur would normally pay more attention, but tonight he’s distracted, watching Merlin.

He doesn’t look that much different from the day they met on Merlin’s first and Arthur’s last year at Cambridge. He isn’t as rail-thin anymore; the features of his face have lost the puppy-esque smoothness of angles and are more sharply defined and filled out now. But the enthusiastic, ever-curious glimmer in his eyes is the same, the bright smile just as ready, and he’s still a sizeable bundle of energy, a benevolent magnetic pole gone errant.

Merlin might seem careless and oblivious, but Arthur knows better. Even as Merlin goes on and on about that utterly useless TA of his who shouldn’t have been made a TA in the first place, his eyes hold their own conversation, asking Arthur silently if Merlin should keep on talking or if he should stop and ask Arthur what’s wrong.

Arthur doesn’t know how he responds, what kind of non-verbal signal he sends, but Merlin nods quietly, probably not aware he’s doing it, and Arthur relaxes, listening to the sound of his voice, making remarks from time to time, even though later he won’t remember what he said or why.

When they get home, Merlin tries to sneak some papers into bed, but Arthur puts a stop to it with no sympathy whatsoever. They curl up together, watching reruns of _Top Gear_ , until Merlin gets bored, rolls on top of him, and starts kissing down Arthur’s chest, while Arthur tries to pretend this hadn’t been his plan all along.

He’s not a monster, though, and he wakes Merlin an hour early the next morning so that he can get some work done and the dean won’t throw a hissy fit. To be fair, the man had become infinitely more understanding when Arthur adopted a habit of picking Merlin up from campus at least once a week, often wearing the short sleeves that he normally hates. It did wonders to remind Merlin’s boss that, while, yes, Doctor Emrys is quite indispensible to the faculty, his students, and indeed to the noble science of archaeology in general, he also has a life and said life could probably take on the combined force of weak-muscled academia if need be.

As he drives to the office, though, Arthur spares a thought for the two gossiping women in the cafeteria yesterday, who clearly must have been off their rockers.

\--

It’s not true, though, that this is the first time Arthur’s thought about it. The trouble is, he simply isn’t that kind of person.

The first time he saw Merlin was in a cramped auditorium, when Merlin climbed onto the stage to deliver a presentation and promptly stumbled, sending his papers flying everywhere. People laughed, and Merlin had looked up, batted his lashes shyly, and smiled, as if agreeing that his clumsiness was infinitely entertaining. Somehow that led to half the first row jumping up to help him collect the papers, and Arthur freezing on his spot by the wall and thinking ‘ _Fuck_.’

He made a point to approach Merlin afterwards and make fun of his two left feet, his stupid scarf, and his ears. Merlin had blinked, like he couldn’t believe Arthur had actually just said all that, and Arthur had felt proud, adding something about Merlin’s fashion sense and asking if Merlin had stolen his horrible baggy cardigan from a homeless person.

Merlin had stared at him some more, the tips of his ears turning red, and then he’d burst out laughing, calling Arthur an arsehole in a tone that was all helpless admiration and wonder, as though Arthur was a rare specimen that few people had seen outside of his natural habitat.

Merlin had slept with him two weeks after that, and then not for the next three years. They’d drifted in and out of each other’s orbits until they’d ended up sort-of friends who threw lewd comments at each other and sometimes made out while drunk.

Yet somehow, out of the noisy throng of ever-present friends, it was Arthur who went to see Merlin off to his six months of archaeological slavery in Tunisia.

Merlin had looked small and uncertain, as though intimidated by the huge, growling leviathan of an airport, and the smile he’d given Arthur was as watery as the weak tea from the vending machine. In the end, Arthur went for a hug, and Merlin aimed for a handshake, and they parted with an awkward laugh and some desperate last-minute eye contact.

When Merlin came back, Arthur had picked him up from the airport and driven him to his own flat, where Merlin was supposed to stay until he found a place. Somehow that never happened, and the only moving that had taken place was that of Merlin’s grandfather knitted jackets and a horde of mismatched socks from the guest room to the master bedroom.

It had been an excruciating, year-long migration of things that were probably quite fashionable a hundred years ago in a galaxy far, far away. Sometimes, when Arthur was being particularly obtuse or stupid, they’d started drifting in the opposite direction, which had made him despair a little and contest the ownership of the hideous brown sweater that Arthur could never have bought, not even at gunpoint.

But amidst all the things he’d done wrong, there must be at least a few he’d done right, because Merlin never really left. The guest room became stuffed with books and fossils and known as ‘Merlin’s study’ (and it’d been okay, somehow, that Arthur didn’t have one), and people began referring to Merlin as ‘your partner’ when talking to Arthur.

And then, inexplicably, Merlin was joining Arthur for his bi-weekly lunches with Uther, and somehow had more to say about Uther’s rheumatism than Arthur did, and it was him Uther asked if they were coming over for Christmas.

The point is, there never really was a moment in their relationship when Arthur had stopped and thought, _‘I’m going to marry this man and spend the rest of my life with him.’_

Morgana thinks it’s because Arthur doesn’t have a single romantic bone in his body; Gwen frowns and thinks it’s because he has commitment issues; Gwaine thinks it’s because Merlin is secretly in love with _him_ and is going to dump Arthur at any moment; Uther sighs and gives Arthur disappointed looks and acts as though he doesn’t remember that the first time they met, Merlin was wearing a pink bandana and tights and not much else and yelling something about Mercutio that Shakespeare had never written.

And Merlin thinks—

Well. Frankly, Arthur has no idea what Merlin thinks or if he even notices. He seems to be much more interested in his classes, his research, and shagging Arthur stupid whenever he’s in the mood, which is all the time.

Besides, as Arthur points out to Morgana once, it’s not as if Merlin is incapable of getting on one knee himself, or buying the ring if he wants one.

Morgana smacks Arthur upside the head, which _hurts_ , and denies being genetically related to him, which hurts more. Arthur comes home pouting and drags Merlin out of his study to cuddle on the couch and make fun of Torchwood aliens. 

_People don’t get us_ , Arthur thinks sulkily. They think Merlin is the cuddler and Arthur ‘graciously allows it’ on rare instances when he’s not being a prick. The truth is, Merlin doesn’t even like hugging people who aren’t Arthur or Gwen or Ellie, while Arthur is a giant cuddle slut and their ever-shared personal bubble is entirely his doing, and they’ve had many a fight about what is considered acceptable behaviour in public places. (Apparently blowing Arthur in the loo is fine, as is Arthur’s arm over Merlin’s shoulders, but kissing at a pub table is a no-no and any movement below the waist in such a space is the quickest way to make Merlin angry. The rules don’t seem to apply when Merlin is drunk and drags Arthur onto the dance floor to shamelessly rut against him and shove his tongue down Arthur’s throat, and it’s infuriatingly unfair, but for some reason Arthur always forgets to complain.)

Arthur doesn’t tell him what’s gotten him so upset, and Merlin doesn’t press, trusting Arthur to share if it was important.

The only times when Arthur does think that marrying Merlin might be actually a thing to do are when Merlin smiles at Arthur’s work colleagues over the dinner table, or at a bartender when he’s getting drinks, or at a copper when they’re pulled over for speeding. There are very few people on the planet who are impervious to Merlin’s smile, and most of them are his former academic adviser, Gaius, who merely lifts an unimpressed eyebrow, and Arthur’s PA, Vivian, which is the only reason she still has a job, despite flaming incompetence.

Merlin smiles, people smile back and lean closer and _look_ at him, and Arthur feels jealousy spill hot and acrid in the pit of his stomach. Merlin doesn’t have a single unfaithful bone in his body, but he’s an awful flirt, unaware he’s doing it half of the time and all the more formidable for it.

When Arthur’s jealous, he acts like it, uncaring of the impression he makes and believing deep down that the worse it is, the better. He’ll wrap his arm around Merlin’s waist and press against him and sometimes, when he’s especially annoyed, even kiss him in public. He’d glare at whoever thinks Merlin means it and sometimes, if he’s drunk or the person is particularly obtuse, he’d tell them bluntly to back off.

Merlin, for all his aversion to public displays, would never really get mad. Most of the time, he’s surprised, giving Arthur a look that’s all gentle reproach and fond exasperation, and will stay glued to Arthur’s side until they’re behind closed doors. They have some of their most edgy and daring sex when Arthur is jealous, and in the end, Arthur doesn’t _really_ mind. It’s not every day that Merlin lets him fuck his mouth like that, and Arthur wakes up in the morning with come in his hair, which should be disgusting but invariably leads to more fucking.

When Merlin is jealous, it’s a whole different story.

Arthur didn’t catch up on it at once. For the longest time, he’d actually been upset that Merlin had seemed to be indifferent when Arthur flirted with other people. Arthur had done it a few times on purpose, hoping to provoke a response, but all it’d gotten him was a handful of phone numbers he’d never use and an assortment of glares from their friends.

Nothing from Merlin.

It was when Merlin had started encouraging him that Arthur had finally gotten it, after wrestling through a quagmire of confusion and vague hurt. It didn’t apply to pretty waitresses or Gwaine’s nude models, but when Arthur genuinely found someone intriguing, Merlin had backed off. He’d leave Arthur alone with them; he’d ask, “Are we still on for Gwaine’s pub crawl on Friday, or do you have... _plans_?”

“What plans?” Arthur would ask, confused, because Merlin’s inflection suggested he meant something, and Arthur hadn’t had any plans for his free time that didn’t involve Merlin in some way ever since they met.

Merlin had wriggled his eyebrows significantly and smiled. “I thought, maybe you and Mithian…”

“Me and Mithian what?”

Merlin had shrugged. “It was just a thought.” 

It had taken a while. It’d taken Mithian, Elena, and Percy for Arthur to finally get it.

“Oh my _God_ ,” he’d said, because it was _absurd_ and Merlin couldn’t possibly have been serious. “You’re an idiot.”

That had earned him a scowl. Arthur had laughed until his ribs hurt, unable to help it, and Merlin locked himself up in his study. It had taken a promise of tiramisu to lure him out of there, and Arthur swore not to laugh again but of course had, the moment he saw Merlin’s face.

Merlin’s shoulders had drooped, and he’d sighed, turning his face away when Arthur had tried to kiss him, but eventually he’d given in and let Arthur spread him on the bed and slowly ravish him. Then, because he’s a heartless bastard sometimes, he’d sent Arthur to the corner shop for tiramisu ice cream.

Arthur had grumbled but gone anyway, still grinning dopily. For a smart person, Merlin could be impossibly stupid.

“I love you,” Arthur said later that night, and for the first time, it wasn’t meant as a joke or wrapped in banter.

Merlin had sighed. “I love you,” he’d said, easy as pie, fingers tangled in Arthur’s hair.

It had been a perfect moment to blurt out the question and make a ring out of a condom wrapper to be later substituted for something worth a few thousand pounds, but it hadn’t occurred to Arthur just then, and the moment had slipped away, unnoticed.

They had ended up going to the Pendragon manor for Christmas that year, as they had all the years before. Arthur had been watching Merlin playing with little Elaine and Vivienne while Leon and Morgana had taken a walk in the frozen park, enjoying a moment alone. Uther had materialised at Arthur’s elbow.

“Look, son, I don’t know how it works with gay couples—”

Arthur groaned.

Uther tactfully hadn’t said any more, but later, Arthur walked in on him and Merlin playing chess in Uther’s study. 

It wasn’t that significant in itself, except they were using the two-hundred-years-old ivory set that Uther had gotten as a gift from the Indian prime-minister and that neither Arthur nor Morgana were allowed to touch on pain of death. Not only that, but Uther, who had less patience than his two-year-old grandchildren, had been slowly explaining the Royal Defence to Merlin for what seemed to be the third time. The look on his face had been tortured, but he’d done it, while Merlin had probably been deliberately playing dumb because he had no sense of danger whatsoever.

The guest bedroom was chilly, and Merlin’s teeth had chattered. He’d sat on the edge of the ancient four-poster bed, tugging on Arthur’s woollen socks with an expression of mortal offence on his face.

“Oh, come off it.” Arthur had rolled his eyes, jumping onto the bed and diving under the covers, nearly dislodging Merlin in the process. “You know the house is old.”

Merlin had given him a baleful look, but a dangerous glint had appeared in his eyes soon after, and Arthur had stilled instinctively.

“You know, your father’s bedroom is already renovated,” Merlin told him, rubbing his socked feet together. “I bet it’s really warm there. If only I met him before I met you, I could be there right now.”

Arthur had stared at him, horrified. “You did not just say that.”

Merlin had smirked. “Your father is a very handsome man whose conversation, surprisingly, doesn’t stick to stock exchange and football.”

“Oh, my God.”

“He really knows how to – _court_ someone. Besides, there’s this aura of power around him, it could be quite an aphrodisiac—”

Arthur had groaned loudly, sticking his fingers in his ears, because at times like that, Merlin could be positively evil, and that never boded well... except when it did.

Later that night, Arthur had to bite down hard on his own fist as he came, listening to the deafening roar of blood in his ears, his arm twisted behind his back savagely as Merlin drove into him with ruthless, unrelenting energy that made it hurt so good. Neither of them remembered the cold after that.

Arthur had been late for breakfast, wincing as he came down the stairs but unable to stop grinning. Morgana had smirked at him, looking at the bite marks on his hand, and then taken Merlin for a walk in the garden – a favour that only those in her inner witch circle were ever granted. Leon had given Arthur an understanding and mildly sympathetic look, and Arthur had thought that he was screwed.

And Arthur should probably have done something about it, but he’d gotten distracted by Morgana’s golden-haired twin daughters and Merlin’s carefree laughter drifting in from the distance. Leon had sighed, and Uther had shaken his head, but later, Merlin had come back with a basket of winter apples, ruffled Arthur’s hair, and kissed him, and the girls had made ‘ew’ noises until they’d each received a kiss, too.

\--

The day’s been going relatively well for the last work day before the holidays. Arthur’s almost come to the conclusion that his marketing department might not, in fact, consists entirely of idiots, and is even grinning about it when his phone rings.

 _“You do remember Lance’s bachelor party is today?”_ Merlin says, foregoing a greeting.

“What?” Arthur blinks. “Oh, fuck.”

_“Yeah. I almost forgot myself until Gwaine called me.”_

Arthur emits a noise so loud and full of mortal desperation that Vivian sticks her head in through the glass door of his office, probably to check if Arthur has hurt himself.

“ _Gwaine’s_ arranging that?” Arthur wails. “Jesus, Merlin. We’re all going to die.”

Vivian’s head disappears with a theatrical roll of her eyes.

Merlin laughs. _“I’m sorry, Arthur, that couldn’t be helped. Morgana declared that there be strippers, and I know nothing about strippers.”_

“Would wonders never cease.”

_“Sorry, I should have said ‘girl strippers.’”_

“I’m hanging up now.”

 _“The_ Lionheart, _eight o’clock. See you there.”_

Arthur’s forehead connects with the solid wood of his desk with a very loud sound, but this time, Vivian ignores him.

\--

The party is exactly as Arthur had suspected, with gratuitous alcohol and some very daring entertainment, but, at the same time, it’s strangely intimate. They make a rather small group, consisting of Gwaine, Lance, Arthur, Merlin, Leon, Percy, and a couple of Lance’s co-workers who seem to be the most appreciative of the dancers.

Arthur doesn’t remember the last time he’d spent in this particular company simply getting drunk for the hell of it, but it was probably back at uni. He trusts them, he loves them, and it feels liberating and _good_ to let the reigns slip for just a little.

It’s fun to watch Lance, who normally drinks very little, to down shot after shot with Gwaine and Merlin, who have already tried to burst into song twice, until a particularly smart belly dancer told them the karaoke machine has broken. Arthur made a mental note to leave her a very generous tip.

In retrospect, he thinks, being subjected to Gwaine’s signing could have probably been better than the very dirty variation of truth or dare he initiates instead. Arthur has no secrets from this crowd, but Merlin, because he’s just that much of an idiot, downs another shot of something that’s emitting blue fire, laughs, and says, “Dare.”

“Kiss Lance,” Gwaine says immediately, because he’s a bastard. “Make it one to remember.”

Arthur wants to throttle Gwaine very, very much, but he might just not scramble up enough coordination for it and the bloody git probably knows it.

Lance throws a vaguely apologetic look at Arthur, but Merlin is already crawling into his lap, grinning impishly. He wraps his arms around Lance’s neck and gives him an incredibly showy kiss, as if he’s trying out for a porno. Lance stiffens at first, but then the penny obviously drops that this is the last person who isn’t Gwen that he’d ever kiss, and he grabs Merlin by the hips and goes for it. Maybe he told himself he wouldn’t enjoy it, but Arthur knows what the warm weight of Merlin in one’s lap feels like, when he rocks and wriggles instinctively, unable to stay still if his life depended on it, and there’s no way anyone alive wouldn’t react to that.

Arthur watches, wants to look away, but watches still, his fists curling. It goes on and on, both of them moving in the seat now, and Arthur is a hairbreadth away from jumping in and bodily pulling them apart. It takes every drop of his resolve to stay put.

Merlin finally breaks the kiss, head falling back as he laughs, accepting another shot from Gwaine and knocking it back. He looks young and wanton, lips gleaming wetly, eyes brazen and wild. He’s still straddling Lance, who’s drunker than they all thought, obviously and completely mesmerised by the display. Merlin leans in then and whispers something into his ear, ignoring Gwaine and Percy’s loud protests. Lance’s face goes soft, shifting from lustful to tender – and this, this right here is the moment when Arthur wants to punch him, to wipe that look off his face.

Merlin disentangles himself finally and takes a couple of swaying steps toward Arthur, kneeling in the V of his legs, arms braced at either side of him.

Arthur stays stubbornly still, vibrating with tension while trying to imitate an ice sculpture. He ignores Merlin, giving him an unimpressed, annoyed look, but Merlin’s warmth is seeping in through his clothes, and Merlin’s eyes are too _knowing_ for the amount of alcohol he consumed, which is simply unfair.

He turns around and sits himself in front of Arthur, fitting his hips in the brackets of Arthur’s thighs, leaning against his chest. Arthur still refuses to move, and Merlin sighs quietly and nuzzles the side of his face in a mute _‘I’ve done nothing wrong but please forgive me anyway’_ gesture. It’s not as though Arthur has infinite amounts of resistance or indeed a defence against that, and he finally shifts back, giving Merlin more room, and wraps his arms around him. He catches Merlin’s earlobe between his teeth and presses, not biting down but clearly marking his intent. When he pulls back, Merlin is grinning.

The night disintegrates in rowdy songs and more alcohol, and at some point there’s Gwaine taking his clothes off next to the pole dancer, and then inexplicably, they’re all dressed and out, loading Lance into a taxi and instructing Percy to ply him with water when they get to Percy’s flat.

Arthur is drunk, too, but not as drunk so as not to push Merlin against the door of their flat the moment they enter. Merlin laughs, but it’s a little nervous now, husky when he asks, “Do you want to punish me?”

Arthur doesn’t want to punish him, no, but he wants to fuck him very much, and it’s a good thing they did that earlier that day, because Arthur wouldn’t have stopped – neither of them would have stopped – for anything just now. They don’t even undress, and Arthur fucks Merlin into the unforgiving wood of the door with Merlin’s trousers and pants pooled around his ankles, and Merlin will have bruises, which a distant part of Arthur’s brain regrets, except – fuck, no, he doesn’t, he’s that kind of git.

Merlin is running his mouth a mile a second, but Arthur ignores him, ignores every part of him that isn’t his arse, until Merlin’s head falls back, mouth torn open around a low, helpless wail, and Arthur pushes into him one last time before everything whites out.

It’s only thanks to Merlin that they make it to the bedroom instead of collapsing right there in the hallway before passing out. Arthur is very vaguely aware of Merlin wrestling him out of his suit, but he can’t move a limb to help, it’s too much effort, and he isn’t sure he’s even conscious. He falls asleep to the sound of Merlin’s grumbling, affectionate despite his best efforts.

\--

“Who gets married on Christmas?” Arthur grumbles, fidgeting on the bench, uncomfortable in his new suit. It’s itchy.

“Hush, it’s romantic,” Elena says, elbowing him in the ribs.

Arthur looks at her, and, God help him, she’s turning misty-eyed as she studies the flower arrangements and Lance’s nervous face.

“What is it about weddings that turns people into blubbering idiots?” Arthur wonders loudly enough to earn himself a few dirty looks.

“I don’t know,” Elena drawls dreamily, missing the sarcasm completely as usual. “Oh, look, there’s Merlin. Aw, Arthur, how do you let him out of your sight? He’s so _adorable_.”

Arthur hates when people call Merlin that, even if he has to admit that there’s something helplessly endearing in the way Merlin’s face is alight with happiness as he leans closer to Lance, straightening his tie. Lance still looks a little green after the party two nights ago, but at that moment, Arthur fails to scrape up any sympathy for him.

“Ooh, it’s starting!” Elena’s voice rings with excitement even in her stage whisper as she grabs Arthur’s arm, overcome with emotion.

Arthur has never been moved by weddings, but there’s something about this one that, in the end, overpowers even him. It’s immediately clear to everyone who meets them that Lance and Gwen are made for each other. Yet, it had taken them seven years and many a heartbreak to get to this point.

The gorgeous, magnificent woman wearing an exclusive wedding dress, hand-sewn by a world-famous designer whose name Arthur can’t pronounce to save his life, is not the same timid girl in coveralls Morgana had dragged into their circle by the hand all those years ago. And Lance, while still a hopeless romantic, has grown from someone who embraced the carefree bohemian lifestyle into a man who stands up for his cause.

Somehow, they’ve transitioned through time together, the change seamless and unnoticed while stretched through the years but all the more evident now.

Arthur’s eyes drift to Merlin to find him looking at Lance and Gwen with a smile that’s happy and wistful, and the unexpected, unadorned longing in his gaze makes Arthur’s breath catch. His throat closes in, cutting off his air, and he feels hamstringed and powerless, because just for a moment, for the tiniest measure of a second, Merlin looks _sad_.

“Are you okay?” Elena whispers.

Arthur tries to nod, but all he wants is to put his head between his knees and try to breathe.

His vision clears at last, and the tightness in his chest relents a bit. When he looks up front again, Merlin is beaming and passing the rings to Lance, whose hands seem to be trembling.

Next to Arthur, Elena sniffs. “So beautiful.”

Arthur nods, but he’s not looking at the new husband and wife at all.

\--

Merlin doesn’t like big parties much, but when it’s all friends, he enjoys himself. Arthur watches him, still feeling unsettled, but Merlin shows no signs of melancholy. He makes the entire hall collapse with laughter while delivering his best man’s toast, dances with Gwen with surprising grace, distracts Elaine and Vivienne just as they’re about to have a fit, and doesn’t spend a minute without a smile blooming wide across his face.

Arthur can’t stop watching him, distracted around whoever tries to talk to him, leaving his cake untouched on the plate and barely taking a sip of his champagne. It’s like having an epiphany, only it isn’t, because it’s been a long time since that pink headband. He’d seen Merlin broken over his childhood best mate’s betrayal, his face contorted and ugly with pain and anger; he’d seen Merlin shed not a tear at his mother’s funeral and then stop eating for a month, withdrawing so deeply into himself that Arthur had thought he wouldn’t recover. He remembers Merlin taking the brunt of Arthur’s fights with Uther, back when they weren’t even an item; remembers every insecurity about his academic achievements, and the fights about the money, and the long absences when Merlin went off to Morocco or Egypt or Syria and returned months later, burnt to a crisp, thin as a rail again, and _beaming_ , as though Arthur was the most precious thing he’d ever seen.

It’s not an epiphany, but Arthur can’t deal with it. More than anything, he wants to hold Merlin, but at the same time, he can’t stand to be near him.

Outside, the day is as wet and windy as one could expect from London in December, and Arthur stands in the car park for a while, not feeling the cold.

“ _There_ you are,” Gwaine says, probably a few hours later. “You’d better take your man home, Princess. Pretty sure he’s dead on his feet.”

Arthur nods; it’s probably true. Merlin hadn’t gotten get much sleep, having spent most of the night on the phone with Lance solving all kinds of moral dilemmas that Arthur frankly couldn’t care less about, and today was hardly a light day.

He goes back inside to find Merlin slumped against Elyan, talking to the band’s drummer without having any idea of what he’s saying or realising that the drummer is coming on to him with no subtlety whatsoever. Elyan looks part amused, part annoyed, and is definitely happy to see Arthur. Merlin beams at him, too, but he’s obviously had more champagne than is advisable and has to be pulled to his feet.

“Come on, darling,” Arthur says, louder than necessary. Elyan lifts a mocking eyebrow, but the drummer gives him a nasty look, so Arthur considers the trade-off acceptable. “Let’s get you home.”

Merlin’s feet are, of course, glued to the floor. “You never use pet names unless we’re f—”

Arthur slaps a hand over Merlin’s mouth. “Right. Let’s go.”

Elyan snorts behind them.

\--

By the time they reach the flat, Merlin is near comatose. He foregoes the shower, which is a good thing – Arthur remembers finding him asleep under the spray more than once – tugs his clothes off haphazardly, dropping them on the floor, and then, as an afterthought, picking them up and draping them halfway decently over a chair with a grumble in Arthur’s direction, even though Arthur had no intention of saying anything this time. Then Merlin falls into bed, burying his face into the pillow, and it’s very clear that even a threat of a nuclear explosion wouldn’t be incentive enough to make him move again.

“How’s your head?” Arthur asks, preparing for bed in a more dignified manner. He’s tired, too.

“Ngh.”

“Flying?”

“‘n how.”

Arthur shuts off the lights and stretches under the covers. He’s restless.

“Merlin? Do you want to get married?”

Merlin lets out a sound caught between a groan and an audible eyeroll. “Are you drunk?”

“I’m serious.”

Merlin grunts something elaborate but unintelligible. Arthur takes it in the spirit of _‘I can’t believe I let you drive us when you’re this drunk,’_ in which it was clearly intended, and sighs.

“Fine, be like that. Goodnight, Merlin.”

“Mhm.”

Arthur lies there for awhile, annoyed at Merlin or himself, he isn’t sure. Finally, he stops fighting the habit that grew out of and then back into instinct and moves closer, looping an arm around Merlin’s waist and kissing his shoulder.

Merlin’s dead to the world, fast asleep and snoring softly, but he still responds to the touch, melding his body into Arthur’s with a contented sigh, like it’s _a natural thing for him to do._

Arthur blinks, eyes stinging hot suddenly, his breath stuttering. “God, I love you,” he pushes into the warm skin of Merlin’s neck, his arm tightening reflexively. “I love you so fucking much, I can’t stand it, how do I even—”

Not the words, but the obvious distress in his tone makes Merlin surface for a moment, turning his face to Arthur slightly, clearly struggling to stay half-awake. “Arthur? Wussron’?”

“Nothing.” Arthur says quickly, blinking a little too much in the dark. “I love you, that’s all.”

Merlin relaxes instantly. “‘ve you,” he murmurs, even as his head lolls back onto the pillow, and this time he’s out cold.

Arthur huffs out a choked laugh and plants too-firm, too-warm kisses over the side of Merlin’s neck until the tightness in his chest eases a little.

\--

In the morning, Merlin is so pitifully hungover that Arthur can’t help but laugh at him a little. Merlin pouts and moans, and Arthur nurses him through it, bringing him tea in bed and feeding him ibuprofen before dragging him to the shower and sucking him off. Merlin pads into the kitchen afterward, boneless and glowing, headache forgotten, and wraps himself around Arthur.

“What’s with you?”

“Hm?”

“You’re spoiling me.”

Arthur twists around and pulls Merlin into his lap, nuzzling his cheek and grinning. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Stupid question, Merlin,” Arthur murmurs, nipping at his neck softly. “Because you’re mine to spoil.”

Merlin pulls back to look at him. “There really is something wrong with you. I just—”

Arthur shuts him up with a kiss, playful and dirty, and Merlin’s train of thought is successfully derailed.

\--

He finds the ring by accident.

He hadn’t meant to go through Merlin’s things, but he’s been tidying up and it just happened. Of the two of them, Arthur has always been the neat freak, while Merlin leans toward being a horrible slob. It’d led to many an argument, but now, Arthur doesn’t feel a single urge to fight.

The ring is heavy and thick, probably supremely uncomfortable when worn. It weighs like gold but it has a distinctive coppery tinge to it. Inside, there’s an engraving of what looks like runes.

There’s a soft noise from the doorway, and Arthur knows he’s been discovered. He turns around to find Merlin leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. In his ratty school t-shirt and threadbare jeans, he looks much more like a student than a professor.

Arthur lifts the ring to eye level, his eyebrow curving. “Anything you want to tell me? Going to Mordor any time soon?”

Merlin smiles, but it’s barely there. “I stole it,” he says, casual and matter-of-fact. “From my first expedition.”

“When you went to Tunisia,” Arthur says.

“Yeah. Well, I didn’t actually steal it. It was never reported.”

Arthur gives him a look, and Merlin rolls his eyes.

“Those are spread all over the place and people pick them up from the earth every day.”

“It looks valuable, though.”

“It is. Can you read it?”

“No.”

“I can.” Merlin moves closer and takes the ring from Arthur’s hand. “This is actually old Welsh.”

“How’d it got to Tunisia?”

Merlin shrugs. “Merchants. Pirates. Roman soldiers. There’s no way of knowing.”

“What does it say, then?”

Merlin’s eyes meet his. “Arthur.”

“What?”

A small smile flits over Merlin’s lips. “That’s what it says. _‘Arthur.’_ ”

Arthur’s heart is beating too fast. “Oh.” 

Merlin looks away. “I picked it up, and I couldn’t let go of it. I thought I’d give it to you as a souvenir.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Merlin looks away. “Back then, I meant it as a thank you. And goodbye.”

Arthur goes still, his chest tightening painfully. “You were going to—”

He can't finish. Somehow, he finds himself sitting awkwardly on the edge of the bed without a clear recollection of how he got there.

“Oh, Arthur, I didn't – you don't know what it was like for me before.” Merlin closes the space between them swiftly and sits down next to Arthur, their knees close but not touching.

“What was it like?” Arthur asks mechanically.

He keeps staring at the ring, his mind whirling in endless, frustrated circles. Why did Merlin bring it out from wherever he kept it now? Is it for the same reason?

He looks at Merlin, but all he sees is the look of turmoil. It's not reassuring.

Merlin clasps his hands in his lap, knuckles going white. Arthur knows all of Merlin’s tells, perhaps better than his own, and this is how Merlin tries to stifle his nervousness.

“Arthur, when we met… For me, it was – I don't want to make your head any bigger, but you should have seen yourself; rude remarks aside, you were – _gorgeous_. I didn't know real people could be like that.”

A flush spills over Arthur's cheeks, and he shifts in his seat, feeling ridiculous.

For God’s sake – he’d held Merlin's head above the toilet when Merlin had drunk his weight in alcohol the night after he’d defended his thesis. Merlin had given him sponge baths when Arthur was fighting the cruellest fit of fever some winters back and was reduced to a helpless, moaning pile of _gross_.

There’s no mystery left for either one of them; there hasn’t been for a very long time.

A simple compliment should not be making Arthur's stomach flip, but it does, because Merlin sounds like he's confessing something he’s never told anyone. It's ludicrous.

It’s almost too sincere to handle.

“You were – Arthur, I can't even tell you what you felt like to me. You had everything. You could have had anyone. And I was just – I was just me.”

“Merlin—”

Merlin shakes his head. “No, I know. You don't care, but I couldn't imagine it back then.”

Arthur has so many things to say to that, but there's this note of urgency in Merlin's voice that makes him bite his tongue. He can tell Merlin about his horrible attempts at poetry later. 

“I knew I'd be just a notch on your bedpost, but I slept with you anyway, because I figured, better have it at least once—” Merlin bites his lip and shakes his head. “Hell no, what am I saying. You wanted me, and I couldn't say no. And then you just – moved on.”

Just like that, Arthur’s patience runs out.

“You all but told me to fuck off!” he explodes, unable to stay silent another moment at this blatant rewriting of history. “You were the one who said—”

“I was trying to save myself some dignity!”

“So you kicked me out? Nice one, Merlin. Probably your best one yet!”

“I don't remember you asking me out afterwards, either!”

“Well, why would I? You made it very clear that you were too good to have anything to do with a spoiled, rich bastard like me—”

“Which you were.”

“Granted, but that didn't mean I didn't have feelings!”

“I know, Arthur, okay?” Merlin grabs his hand, but Arthur shakes him off, irritated. Merlin sighs. “Look, we were young. I don't want to fight with you about what happened ten years ago.”

Arthur huffs, but nods reluctantly. 

“I spent three years pining after you,” Merlin says. “Trying to be content with being your friend and falling more and more in love with you. And you were always with other people.”

It takes a herculean effort, but Arthur doesn't speak.

“When I went to Tunisia, I met a guy.” Merlin’s tone is quieter now, softer. “He was... brilliant, actually. Smart, fit, spoke a dozen languages... Took a fancy to me, too.”

Arthur grits his teeth. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I couldn't respond to him, Arthur,” Merlin confesses, and, this time, when he takes Arthur’s hand, Arthur lets him. “I wanted to so badly, because he was everything I could wish for, and I just – couldn't. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw you. I kept looking for you in the crowd. I kept track of every little thing I wanted to tell you... And I decided then that I need to get over it. Over you.”

He squeezes Arthur's hand. “I realised that us being friends, staying so close, it was –sweet, but I didn't think you'd ever feel the same, and my life was standing still. I decided I needed a clean break. That's when I found the ring.”

Arthur stares at it, the metal warm from the heat of his palm.

“Then you picked me up from the airport and brought me here. I'd rehearsed my speech so many times on my way back, I nearly blurted it out the moment I saw you, but then you – well—”

Despite everything, Arthur's lips twitch. He remembers only too well what happened next, every minute of it, every single sensation.

_Merlin stepped out of the shower in nothing but a towel, wrapped so low around his hips it showed where the smooth, lightly-freckled bronze of his skin melded into creamy white and tender, and Arthur was gone, done, finished there and then._

_He kissed Merlin before he knew what he was doing, his hands unsteady, living a life of their own, roaming all over, rude and shaky, high on so much skin. Merlin’s gasps filled his ears, eclipsing the entire world around them, until Arthur could taste every breathy moan, feel every tiny shiver._

Merlin's lips curve slightly in an answering grin, and he schools his features to seriousness with an effort. “I stayed, and then... you stayed.”

Arthur shakes his head. “Merlin, when I put you on that plane to Tunisia, I almost bought myself a ticket, too. I – I waited for you.”

Merlin blinks. “Um.”

Arthur nearly groans in frustration. He can’t wrap his mind around it. They know each other so well, down to the last syllable of their prep school nicknames. How could Merlin not have known this? 

“And now?” Arthur forces himself to ask. “Why is this… here?”

He pokes at the ring with his finger. He can't bring himself to finish the question. 

Merlin swallows and reaches to take the ring from Arthur, gazing at it.

“I just thought... I know a guy. He can melt it. I just thought – there's enough metal to make two bands. I mean if you – I mean – Arthur?”

Arthur buries his face in his hands. He’s shaking. 

“Arthur, what’s wrong?” Merlin's hand rests tentatively on his shoulder. “It's – it’s okay if you don't want to.”

“Don't want to?” Arthur looks at him, blinking too fast. “Merlin, you idiot. I thought you were _leaving_ —”

Merlin stares. “What? _Jesus_ , Arthur.”

“I could kill you right now,” Arthur says, pulling him into an awkward, too-strong hug. “You bloody idiot, you stupid, crazy thing, Merlin, don't ever scare me like that again. I was mentally packing my bags.”

“Why? I mean, this is your flat.”

“Have you looked around it lately? Honestly, it's like you're living with your eyes closed half the time. No wonder you didn't know—”

“Arthur, yes or no. Will you marry me?”

Arthur pulls away enough to kiss him, fast, too hard, still a little angry. “Yes, you lunatic.” He huffs out a laugh. “I can’t believe you beat me to it.”

Merlin sags with relief in his arms, and Arthur pulls him closer.

The ring ends up on his thumb, snug and comfortable, as though designed specifically for this purpose.

\--

Arthur wakes up at dawn, the lazy winter sun slowly crawling up on the horizon. The room is chilly, but the bed is warm, and Merlin’s octopus limbs conquered for once – he’s tucked neatly into Arthur’s side.

A rare sunbeam stretches across the room through the window, the light rosy and golden, as though stolen from those old Italian watercolours that Merlin loves so much. Merlin himself has a sense of quiet elegance to him, the sheets pooling with an artistic flourish at the small of his back, his hair curling at his nape in perfect contrast with the paleness of his flawless skin, tinged warm in the humble light.

Merlin chooses that particular moment to emit a soft, whiny kind of sound that turns into a snore in the most inelegant fashion imaginable, ruining the illusion completely.

Arthur laughs, not bothering to tone it down, because this really is his life, ice-cold feet and stolen goods included.

He pulls the covers back up, settles in the pocket of warmth that Merlin’s body has created, and drifts back to sleep. The sun might be well up in the sky, but it’s early, very early, still.


End file.
